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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
55
“The
cedar
spreads
his
dark-green
layers
of
shade.”
“Capital
term—
‘layers!’
Wonderful
man!”
I
did
not
know
whether
he
was
speaking
to
me
or
not;
but
I
put
in
an
assenting
“wonderful,”
although
I
knew
nothing
about
it,
just
because
I
was
tired
of
being
forgotten,
and
of
being
consequently
silent.
He
turned
sharp
round.
“Ay!
you
may
say
‘wonderful.’
Why,
when
I
saw
the
review
of
his
poems
in
Blackwood,
I
set
off
within
an
hour,
and
walked
seven
miles
to
Misselton
(for
the
horses
were
not
in
the
way)
and
ordered
them.
Now,
what
colour
are
ash-buds
in
March?”
Is
the
man
going
mad?
thought
I.
He
is
very
like
Don
Quixote.
“What
colour
are
they,
I
say?”
repeated
he
vehemently.
“I
am
sure
I
don’t
know,
sir,”
said
I,
with
the
meekness
of
ignorance.
“I
knew
you
didn’t.
No
more
did
I—
an
old
fool
that
I
am!—
till
this
young
man
comes
and
tells
me.
Black
as
ash-buds
in
March.
And
I’ve
lived
all
my
life
in
the
country;
more
shame
for
me
not
to
know.
Black:
they
are
jet-black,
madam.”
And
he
went
off
again,
swinging
along
to
the
music
of
some
rhyme
he
had
got
hold
of.
When
we
came
back,
nothing
would
serve
him
but
he
must
read
us
the
poems
he
had
been
speaking
of;
and
Miss
Pole
encouraged
him
in
his
proposal,
I
thought,
because
she
wished
me
to
hear
his
beautiful
reading,
of
which
she
had
boasted;
but
she
afterwards
said
it
was
because
she
had
got
to
a
difficult
part
of
her
crochet,
and
wanted
to
count
her
stitches
without
having
to
talk.
Whatever
he
had
proposed
would
have
been
right
to
Miss
Matty;
although
she
did
fall
sound
asleep
within
five
minutes
after
he
had
begun
a
long
poem,
called
“Locksley
Hall,”
and
had
a
comfortable
nap,
unobserved,
till
he
ended;
when
the
cessation
of
his
voice
wakened
her
up,
and
she
said,
feeling
that
something
was
expected,
and
that
Miss
Pole
was
counting—
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